autophobia

Only while my fingers are in contact with the keys, only before and when the words cause my lips to poot and plip, only then could I say the poems were under control, were something I might pet at the dinner table or wash in the steel basin or even twist and turn before the mirror. Seconds later I don't recognize them, they jeer, jump up and down on the curb, shout things - they're bullies. I immediately begin to write again and again and the poems tear off like toilet paper, they slip flat and fine on the stale thermals of my house sticking to the rhododendrons all around. It's strange to watch them flutter and now and then escape, drift off across the parkway - I have no idea what they are. Even as I sit and type these words I have no idea what I'm doing. It's frightening, really ...

I found a wonderful website just now with poems and the ability to hear the poets, even watch them, recite their work. The Griffin Poetry Prize Page See and Hear Poets